It takes a sure insensitivity to be unapologetically yourself in this climate without suffering the sickly effects of those around you. You ought to be so brimming with conviction, so cleverly menacing with words that no one dares reproach you by ignorance.
If you hope to preserve your better qualities, you can’t be sensitive, because you’re going to insult the weak solely by being, and you don’t want to share in their fragility, so you can’t permit offence by those who should be regarded with indifference.
And that’s the paradox here: even if you cease uttering a word, they’ll always find something to gripe about, they can’t tolerate nobility of a higher order, for that superiority need not speak to displease those who are unhinged by sickness.
Many of them hell-bent on envy and resentment, always masturbating their past traumas, trampled underfoot, swamped in anger. They never dare look themselves in the eye and admit their delusions; no, they propagandize their sorrows until they become another’s.
If you cave in and relinquish your power, it is as much a detriment to yours as it to theirs. What are you to do, contribute to the chaos and destruction or do what is right and so very difficult? The answer is obvious but demanding.
Demanding in the sense that it necessitates a loving indifference, neither worsen their shape nor repudiating yourself. Some of us don’t realise the harm we inflict and suppose that the little good we preserve is trivial, but it isn’t, it propagates.
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